Thursday, February 1, 2018

Circa 1912: My maternal grandmother, Lydia Blomgren Smith (front, center) with her sisters Judith, Anna and Amy. The family emigrated from Sweden to Montana in 1906.

Last week I took my young adult daughter to an event called ROAR:
Fierce Female Storytelling so that she could hear women tell true
stories about overcoming obstacles and hardship. Hearing brave women
telling their stories inspired both my daughter and me. And it reminded
me to not give up. No matter what.

Sometimes in life we slam against hard times that threaten to steal our confidence and our joy. We wonder whether we can keep going. Have you been there? I certainly have.

Like many folks, I've endured some hard times. I've lost a job, a house, and even family. Somewhere along the way, I also lost my courage. At age 53 when I was low on money and had to choose between paying rent or getting my car repaired, I lived for three months in an artist's studio/shed without heat, running water or plumbing. It wasn't easy, but I did it because I had to. I didn't have a choice.

In the past seven years since my divorce and job layoff, a shortage of funds caused me to involuntarily downsize to cheaper digs. I moved seven times in five years. My housing footprint dwindled from a 2,400 square feet house in the city to a 323-square-foot camper in the foothills of the Elkhorn Range in Eastern Oregon. Sometimes, that hasn't been easy. In the heat of summer, I found a sleeping snake curled up on my pillow. On a sub-zero winter morning, it was so cold inside our camper-tiny house that my clothes froze to the closet. Yep. Sometimes, life is hard.

Even so, the hard stuff I've pushed through is nothing compared to what my maternal ancestors endured. I am upheld by a long line of strong, gutsy women who inhabit my family tree. When I've doubted whether I could handle another hardship or obstacle, these women stand behind me--reaching across decades and even centuries--offering me strength to continue paddling through turbulent water threatening to capsize my canoe.Meet my maternal great-grandmother, Edla Christina Rasback Blomgren

My great-grandmother, Edla Blomgren, on the family's Montana farm. She raised 10 children plus many grandchildren.

I never met my maternal great-grandmother, Edla Blomgren, but the few photographs I’ve seen of her paint a picture of a tough, no-nonsense farm woman unafraid of hard work, and able to handle any hardship life dealt her. Although she was a caregiver surrounded by children throughout her life, those who knew her did not describe her as affectionate. In one black-and-white photo, a white-haired Edla is sitting on the porch of an unpainted farmhouse. She’s holding two babies in her arms, and six other children stand around her. No one is smiling. One little girl is bawling.

Edla didn't have an easy life. She was not Sven Blomgren’s first choice for a wife. He was engaged to her older sister, Charlotta, but she died of tuberculosis in May 1885. Seven months later, he married Edla, who was 19. Over the years, the couple had ten children. Sven scraped together money to buy a small farm, but it was a meager existence for the growing family. Like many who sought to escape widespread unemployment, poverty, and famine, the Blomgrens dreamed of a better life in America.

By the time the family emigrated from Hedemora, Sweden to the Helena, Montana area, in 1906, the children ranged in age from 2 to 20. Sven and the five older children arrived first. The family’s passage was paid by Edla’s sister and brother-in-law who had emigrated earlier and owned a ranch in Montana. Sven and the older boys worked on the ranch to repay their debt. The older girls worked as seamstresses and household maids for large ranches.

A few months later, Edla, 40, crossed the Atlantic on the steamship C.F. Tietgen with their five younger children: Anna, 10; Stoney, 8; Gunnar, 6; Lydia (my grandmother), 3 and Samuel Finn, 2. Was she exhausted from caring for her children in crowded steerage accommodations when their ship reached New York? To my knowledge, neither Edla nor any of the children spoke English. I don't know how they made their way from Ellis Island and boarded a train to Montana without knowing any English.

I’m certain Edla was used to making do with what little they had. Imagine cooking for 12 people on a wood stove, and on that same wood stove heating water for dishes, laundry, and Saturday-night baths. Edla and the children likely hauled water from a well. The bathroom was an outhouse. Were Montana winters harsher than Swedish winters? Did Sven and Edla find happiness in America?

They endured the heartache of burying three children in Montana. David, 21, drowned in the Missouri River while working on the crew building Hauser Dam in 1909. Their youngest child, Samuel, who had a weak constitution, died at age 10 from an unidentified ailment in 1915.

My maternal great-grandmother, Edla Blomgren, who raised 10 children and then raised several of her grandchildren on a Montana farm with no electricity or running water--just a wood cookstove and a water pump.

After raising her own children, Edla was called on to raise her grandchildren when her daughter-in-law, Kerstin, died in 1922. Edla was still mothering those grandchildren when her daughter, Judith died, leaving behind a brood of seven children. Judith’s children were divided among relatives, and Edla gathered the two youngest under her wing. Now 59 years old, she was mothering two families of grandchildren. She'd been raising children for 40 years. No wonder she looks tired in that photo! Who wouldn't be? Imagine her fortitude to keep going after so much hardship and heartache.

Edla's youngest daughter was my maternal grandmother, Lydia Fredricka Blomgren, born on December 20, 1902 in Hedemora,
Vastmanland, Sweden. Lydia was the ninth of ten children.

Grandma's family were farm folk who worked hard for every nickel. I'm certain Grandma spent much of her childhood helping her mother with cooking, cleaning, and farm chores. At age 19, Lydia married my grandpa, Michael Smith.

In stark contrast to Grandma's down-to-earth farmers, Grandpa's family was a well-heeled, educated family from Vermont. His father was a physician, and his grandfather, a diplomat assigned to the U.S. Consulate in Odessa, Russia (now Ukraine), had
been appointed by President Abraham Lincoln. I am intrigued and inspired by my grandfather's three aunts who defied convention and society by remaining
unmarried and insisting on living life in their own terms.
Unfortunately, I cannot find any photographs of my great-great aunts. Here is the little I
know:

The middle sister, Helen Louise Willoughby Smith (1862-1932) became a physician in the 1880s, when it would have been very difficult for a woman to do so. I believe
she received her medical training in England or possibly Scotland. She is buried in the
Congressional Cemetery in Washington, D.C.

The youngest sister, Clara Amanda Smith (1874-1907) was an
artist who worked in Italy and died in Davos Platz, Davos Graubunden, Switzerland at age 32.

The oldest sister, Catherine Hermione Smith (1858-1900) was called "Hermy."I know nothing else about her, but knowing that she was among such independent-thinking sisters, she must have been like minded in her pursuits.

Grandpa had turned his back on his family's money, education, and privilege and headed West for adventure. I don't know how or where my grandparents met. Perhaps they met while Grandpa was working on Henry Sieben's vast sheep ranch in Wolf Creek, north of Helena, Montana. Perhaps Grandma was cleaning house or cooking for Sieben's ranch hands. Perhaps they met at a dance in Wolf Creek or Helena. I wish I'd bothered to ask Grandma their story before she died. Is their story lost forever?

My grandma, Lydia Blomgren Smith, a young wife and mother, with her two oldest children, early 1920s in Montana.

Mike and Lydia built a log cabin along the Little Prickly Pear Creek. They set about raising sheep, a garden, and eventually, their 11 children. By the time my mom was born in 1934, the Depression had settled over the country like a shroud. However, they were self-sufficient people of the land who chose to live without electricity, running water, and central heat. They fed their large family from their garden and with wild game. Perhaps they kept chickens for a Sunday dinner of chicken and dumplings. Even into the 1950s, my grandparents chose to live simply on the land without modern conveniences. I don't think my grandparents considered their lifestyle a hardship, but an adventure. But even so, looking back across the decades, it certainly doesn't look easy.

My mother, Joyce Adela Smith Parrish Peterson

Mom, Joyce Adela Smith, Grass Valley, Calif., 1941.

My mother vehemently denies being brave or strong, but she is one of the bravest, strongest women I've ever met. She is the eighth of eleven children, and was the first to graduate high school. Mom is resourceful and hard working, but she also loves to have fun. She took my three siblings and me camping, swimming, and ice skating. Mom was unflappable and encouraged my siblings and me in our antics. We often put on plays, backyard carnivals or made big projects and messes. And extra kids--cousins and friends--always were welcome in our home and on our adventures.

About a third of the 41 first cousins at a family reunion at a family reunion at the farm in 1963. I am in the front row, second to the left, wearing the light pink short set. I'm standing next to my cousin, Dave Smith, who is sporting super-cool sunglasses. Notice that many of my female cousins are wearing dresses, but Mom let me wear shorts so I could run and play.

I
am one of 41 of Lydia's grandchildren. That's cousins galore for all kinds of adventures we dreamed up. My enormous family sometimes gathered at my grandparents' log cabin. Grandma was not a hugging,
affectionate grandmother who called anyone "sweetie." She always spoke
frankly, and she didn’t care whether her words left a mark--even on her
beloved grandchildren. Her terms of endearment were "I'm going to cut off your
arm and beat you with a bloody stump!" or "I'll beat you to death with the stove poker!" We
knew she was kidding--but still, she wasn't your typical hugging grandmother who showers grandchildren with praises.

Perhaps Grandma Lydia's demeanor was
the result of being raised by the stern Edla, growing up in a family of 10 children and raising 11 children of her own. However, I saw a gentler side of Grandma when I was 16
and our extended family built her a log house across the garden from
our farmhouse. I'd visit her after school, and she had buttermilk
cinnamon rolls still warm from the oven and a cold glass of milk
waiting for me. She taught me to play gin rummy and we talked about the
books we were reading. My favorite conversations were when she talked about the old days. I wished I'd
recorded her voice telling those stories! I wish I'd written down her stories. Why didn't I pay more
attention?

Now as grey hairs are sprouting on my head, I think about these strong women who reach across the decades in my family tree. If they
had an opportunity, I'm certain they would join me on a dragon boat. In low moments when I'm feeling defeated and alone or up against a seemingly insurmountable obstacle, I imagine these women sitting with me in a dragon boat,
paddling together, pulling the heavy water with their strong arms and determined spirits. Even in the rain, we could propel the boat forward because we are strong women who do not give up easily. Or at all. Knowing that they endured hardship encourages me to keep going.

When a particularly aggressive wave threatens our boat, we turn the bow toward the wake, and then we paddle harder. We pull the boat through the water. And we're laughing.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

I found a snake on my pillow! (This is not my photo, but is a stock photo. My reaction was not to take a photo of the snake. Rather, I screamed.)

There’s nothing like finding a snake on your pillow
to put your trials and tribulations into perspective.

Recently I walked into the bedroom and I spied a snake
curled up on my pillow. Thankfully, we do not have rattlesnakes here, so I knew
it wasn’t a poisonous snake. It wasn’t a large snake, but it wasn’t a baby
snake either. It was a non-poisonous, medium-sized snake. Still, it was a
snake. And it seemed to be sleeping on my pillow. So I did what any brave
Mountain Woman paddling her own canoe would do: I screamed. Then I quickly
exited the bedroom and called the Mountain Man.

“I’ll be right there,” he promised over the phone.

I waited for him outside. When the Mountain Man searched the
bedroom and our whole tiny home/camper, he could find no trace of the snake. No
doubt my scream had awakened the snake and scared him off. However, the
Mountain Man found a frog, which had climbed up the wall above the bed as high
as he could. Perhaps the snake had been stalking the frog, and the frog was
retreating from the snake. The Mountain Man released the frog outside and then
drove away to go back to work. I was not too keen on going back inside, but I
did because I had work to do.

Until that moment, my current tiny home/living wild challenges
had been finding a single green frog on the floor on my side of the bed almost
every day. I know it’s irrational, but I am freaked out by frogs in the
bedroom. I am fine with seeing frogs in nature. Frogs belong in nature. They do
not belong in a bedroom. But almost every day, I found another frog. Many days, I found him facing the
mirrored closet doors. Perhaps he was a vain frog who was bewitched by his own
reflection. We put the frog out. I use the word “we” loosely. I opened the door
while The Mountain Man put the frog out. And then the next day, the frog would
return to face the mirror. Sometimes before we could catch the frog, he hopped
underneath the built-in bedframe and disappeared. Were frogs and snakes living
underneath our bed?

When the plague of frogs began, I remember saying, “At least
it wasn’t a snake.” Now that which I’d voiced had come true. When I found the
snake on my pillow, I told the Mountain Man: “At least it wasn’t a rattlesnake.”

“Don’t say that!” he said.

The same day that I found the snake on the bed, the Mountain
Man searched the bedding to ensure the snake hadn’t taken refuge there. He hadn’t.
Then we took the bed frame apart to peer under the bed. No snake. But there was
another frog. The Mountain Man put him outside.

The night of the snake I was a little nervous about climbing
into bed. Was the snake still slithering around our bedroom looking for frogs?
What if he crawled up onto the bed and tried to share my pillow with me? I
removed the snake-contaminated pillowcase, threw it into the hamper, and slid a
clean pillowcase over my memory foam pillow. I was not about to get rid of my comfortable,
expensive pillow. I am too thrifty to toss out a pillow just because a snake
slept there. Besides, buying a new pillow meant a very long drive into town.
Somehow, I fell asleep and miraculously, I did not dream of snakes.

It has been more than a month, and we have not seen the
snake again. We also are not sure how the critters are entering the bedroom,
but the Mountain Man has crawled around the underbelly of the camper to plug
holes a critter might crawl through.

Since the snake incident, we began hearing mice in the
bedroom running in the ceiling right over our heads. If the snake experience
hadn’t preceded the mouse invasion, I would have freaked out. Instead, I bought
eight easy-to-set mousetraps. So far, we have caught nine mice. I have learned
how to identify whether scat was deposited by a mouse or a frog. (Here’s an
interesting fact: Frog poop is much larger than mouse poop.) The Mountain Man
sets and empties the traps. I vacuum up the mouse poop and the frog poop. We
keep the kitchen clean and store our food in the pantry in mouse-proof
containers.

Is the snake still slithering around our home looking for
frogs? It’s more likely that he made his way back outside. Just last night we
found a frog on the bedroom floor. It had deposited a big frog-poo on the floor
right next to the closet mirror. I picked up the poo with some toilet paper and
flushed it. No big deal.

I have learned that life goes smoother if you follow the
adage “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” With the perspective of experience, almost
everything becomes small stuff. A few months ago, tiny spiders dropped from the
ceiling every time I showered. Thankfully, I am not afraid of spiders and they
weren’t black widows or brown recluse spiders. We don’t have tarantulas here
either. I learned to calmly squish the tiny spiders with one hand while
shampooing my hair with the other. We also survived living in a camper during the
coldest, hardest winter in two decades. It was so cold inside our home that our
clothing froze to the closet wall.

But hey—that’s life when you’re living wild. The extreme cold and the invasion of mice, frogs, wasps,
flies, spiders, stink bugs and even a snake is just part of our wild,
adventurous life in Northeastern Oregon. Overcoming hard stuff makes me stronger.

The hard stuff is tempered by the
really good stuff. Last Saturday, as we paddled kayaks along the reservoir
below our house, we watched two ospreys soaring above the river while looking
for dinner. The next day, we hiked into an alpine lake, and the Mountain Man
taught me the basics of fly-fishing. As I stood barefoot on the spongey bank
and practiced casting my line, I reveled in the trout swimming near my fly, the
glorious show of wildflowers, and snow still clinging to the high peaks above
the lake.

Some days you might find a snake curled on your pillow. But
other days, you get to hike into an alpine lake with your best friend. I even
caught my first fish.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

In January, I wrote that question on a Post-it note and attached it to my computer at work. Then I attached a second note above our kitchen sink so I'd read it while I was washing dishes or making a meal. So every day, I pondered the question:

"What would I do if I weren't afraid?"

Sometimes we allow fear to cripple us. Eight years ago, fear not only was preventing me from moving forward, but it also was overwhelming me so that I couldn't think lucid, rational thoughts. I was so gripped with fear--mind, body, and spirit--that I was unable to even make an action plan to move beyond my fear.

Then, while my feet were still cemented to the ground in fear, life took over and blasted me free to think, to act, to move forward again.

So many things--good and bad--happened to me in those eight years. My stable life was yanked from underneath my feet and I fell on my rear. Hard. But looking back, even the very hard things like the loss of my marriage, my job, my home, my financial security--were catalyts for me changing from the inside out. For letting go of fear.

In survival mode, I improvised a new life at age 52. Seeking an affordable, safe home, I moved five times in three years, including living in an artist's backyard studio with no heat, water, or toilet. I started a new career as a newspaper reporter.

Facing my fears, I sought adventure by trying new experiences I'd once feared. I joined a women's dragon boat team, the Mighty Women. I tried belly dancing, zip lining, archery, swing dancing, backpacking, kayaking, spelunking, skiing--and the scariest of all--online dating. I fell in love with the Mountain Man. Four years later, I moved to the mountains of Eastern Oregon to start a new life with the man in love--in 323 square feet with a breathtaking view of two mountain ranges.

I reveled in my new life in Eastern Oregon. But even though I'd changed almost everything about my life, I still clung to the notion of a secure job. Health insurance. Paid vacation. Stability.

Good jobs are scarce in Eastern Oregon, but I got a full-time job at a social services agency managing a program to help pay heating bills of low-income folks in four counties. I also managed a federal VA program to help homeless veterans. The job paid $ .07 more per hour than I made as a newspaper reporter, but with Oregon income tax, my take-home pay was less. I had health insurance again, but it had a $2,500 deductible. My insurance would kick in only if I had another catastrophic accident like my infamous breaking-both-wrists ATV ride.

Although there was some satisfaction in helping people in need, my job was an incredibly poor fit for my skill set. I am not a social worker. I am not a budget guru who can decipher spreadsheets. I didn't have the right tools to do the job. I am a writer, a story teller. My supervisor and executive director were pleased with my work, but deep inside, I was extremely unhappy. Unfulfilled. My spirit shriveled a little bit more every day.

Each day, I looked at the Post-it note and pondered the question: "What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

The fearlessness of friends and family propelled me forward.

* My high school friend, Kim Hogan, and his wife, Cindy, left steady jobs in the public school system to teach at a school in Qatar. They have seen camel races and gone camping in the desert. On their weekends and school breaks, they seek adventure all over the world: Germany, France, China, Greece. Fearless adventurers they are!

* My friend, Ruth Friebos was afflicted by a life-threatening, mysterious illness that eventually led doctors to save her life by amputating her leg above the knee. Despite so many setbacks, this active woman and skilled photographer continues to see life through the lens of hope and joy, rather than fear.

* My daughter, Katie, has been barraged by a series of very hard things--but has faced fear and not crumbled under the pressure. She's a survivor, that daughter of mine!

As I pondered what I would do if I weren't afraid, I came up with a list.

If I weren't afraid, I would go skiing again. I hadn't gone since I'd broken both wrists. I was afraid I'd crash on the hill and the titanium plates holding my shattered wrist bones together would poke out of my skin. So, calling up every ounce of bravery I could, I went skiing. I fell--a lot, but I wasn't hurt. I checked skiing off my fear list.

If I weren't afraid, I would make my living as a freelance writer. I started calling and emailing newspapers, magazines, and local agencies. Immediately, I began getting writing projects. I took a deep breath and quit my job. Now I'm freelancing full time--and loving it.

The next biggie on my "fear" list is to finish writing my memoir, "Paddling Her Own Canoe." I've written about a third of the 33 chapters. Now, with discipline and more creativity flowing through me, I will finish writing my book and publish it.

As I write this blog in our tiny home with magnificent views of two mountain ranges, bluejays and doves serenade me.

Fear is behind me. Adventure and joyful living lie ahead.

So here's a question for you: "What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

Monday, March 20, 2017

Some days, the snow is powder, the sky is blue, and the skiing is fine.

But that doesn't describe my latest adventure in skiing.

The powder snow had melted, and then turned to ice. It was raining shards of ice that pelted my face and obstructed my vision.

Skiing on sheer ice is difficult for an experienced skier. For a novice like me, it's a death wish. How do you control your turns and your speed when skiing on a sheet of ice? Very carefully.

One minute I was skiing and in control. But the next, I was careening down the hill on my back--headfirst--so I couldn't see where I was going. Apparently, I also was screaming.

I couldn't get my legs out in front of me to stop. As I slid down the mountain upside down, I prayed I wouldn't slide right off the edge into nothingness. Or hit a tree. Or another skier.

I didn't.

Eventually, I stopped. Amazingly, I still had both skis and poles--not to mention my limbs. No damage to the wrists either.

Shaken, I popped off one ski, and pulled myself back up. Am I crazy for trying to learn to ski at age 57--so soon after breaking both wrists? Many normal women my age are content with keeping both feet planted firmly on the ground.

Maybe I should take up knitting or scrapbooking like a normal woman? But I've never been normal.

A few minutes later, after giving myself a quick pep talk, I was skiing on sheer ice again. As I made my way clumsily down the mountain, I fell several more times. None were as spectacular as my earlier agony-of-defeat head-first death plunge.

When I finally made it to the bottom of the hill, my heart rejoiced. Even though I'd been shaken and scared by the fall, I'd pulled myself together to finish the run.

The next day, I awoke in a body that felt beat up. Large, purple bruises emerged on my right leg.

Some days are golden, with fluffy, powdery snow and blue skies. Other days, we're careening down the mountain on our backs--headfirst--with no view of the danger in front of us.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Today for the first time since my horrible ATV accident, I
got back on alpine skis. And much to my mother’s relief as well as my own, I didn’t
break any bones.

It’s been two years since I last skied. I was a beginner who
had just taken my first solo ski runs—and my first solo chair lift rides. When I first started skiing at age 54, the chair lift was
the most traumatizing part of skiing (due to an unfortunate chair lift episode
when I was 19). The Mountain Man had assured me that skiers do not fall off the
chair lift. But trust me, if anyone couldfall off the chair lift, it would be
me. The klutz.

My saving grace is that I’m an adventurous klutz. So even
though I had been terrified of falling off the chair lift, I wanted to learn to
ski. So I forced myself to sit down on that chair lift seat and ride it to
the top of the mountain. It wasn’t technically good skiing or confident skiing.
I fell multiple times. And I was so slow that when I watched a video of one of
my runs that first year, I seemed to be skiing in slow motion as other skiers
flew past me. Despite my lack of speed, it was fun.

Then the fun ended 18 months ago when I crashed a
four-wheeler while crossing a bridge. Despite the fact that people had crossed
that bridge on ATVs for decades, I was the first person to ever crash on that
bridge. But leave it to me, on my maiden voyage driving an ATV, to crash
spectacularly on that bridge. I crushed both wrists. Now I have titanium plates
holding my wrists together. I’m the Bionic Woman. Well, maybe the Klutzy Bionic
Woman.

After my accident, my orthopedic surgeon and physical
therapist sidelined me for an entire ski season while I continued healing and
regaining my fine motor skills. My surgeon said I could eventually return to
skiing and other adventurous pursuits. He said my titanium wrists would be fine—as
long as I didn’t take another forceful fall rivaling my spectacular somersault
over the ATV handlebars.

Still, I was nervous about skiing. Last night when I laid
out my ski clothes and gear, I worried that I might get hurt. I imagine myself
falling so hard that the titanium plates would poke out of my skin.

I awoke in the middle of the night and my mind started
playing the “what if” game. What if my wrists weren’t capable of holding myself
up on the handle tow? What if my now-arthritic left wrist and thumb couldn’t
hold the ski pole firmly? What if I fell off the chair lift? What if I fell on
the mountain and wasn’t strong enough to get back up again?

But here’s the question that was at the forefront of my mind:
What if my accident had so paralyzed me that I’d lost sight of the adventurous
woman who had given me so much confidence and transformed me in midlife? I didn’t
want my fear to paralyze me.

Sometimes, when I begin to doubt myself, my old, bitter
soccer mom persona pays a visit just to taunt me and throw doubt on my
self-confidence. Last night, uninvited, she threw open my door and made me
question myself, my abilities, and my existence. In her sarcastic voice she asked: “What
makes you think you can ski again? You broke your body. You are 57 years old.
Maybe it’s time to take up knitting from a rocking chair. What makes you think
you can do this?”

Wow. That woman loves stealing my joy.

But I won’t let her
do it anymore. I’ve learned to shush her quickly and put her in her place—far
away from my Adventure Woman ears. Now I am the Dragon Diva. The Woman with the
Dragon Tattoo. Yes, I also happened to have a klutzy, horrific accident that
crushed both wrists and sidelined me for many months. But now I have two
titanium wrists. They are strong. And so am I.

I thumbed my nose at Soccer Mom and told myself: “You can do
this. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Then I climbed back into bed and slept soundly.

Thankfully, the Mountain Man is not only a ski instructor,
but a calm man who inspires calmness and confidence in me. First, he gave me a
quick beginner’s lesson to remind me of the basics: turning, controlling my
speed, stopping. Then we skied down a small hill and headed for the handle tow
to take a couple of turns on the bunny hill. Would my once-broken wrists be
strong enough to hold myself up? Would I fall? Would I get hurt again?

But here’s a fact: My wrists are titanium. They were strong enough to hold myself up on
the handle tow. We made two runs down the bunny hill. My body and my mind remembered
how to ski. The Mountain Man asked if I wanted to make another bunny hill run.

“No. Let’s get on the chair lift and go skiing up on top!” I
said.

So we did. The chair lift wasn’t as scary as it had been
before. On my first run, I fell once, almost right after we started down the
hill. But it wasn’t a spectacular fall. I wasn’t hurt. No broken bones. I didn’t
have titanium poking out of my skin.

But I did need to take control of my self-talk. Although
skiing is very physical, it’s also a mental sport. You must believe that you
can maneuver your way down the mountain—or you won’t be able to do it. Sprawled
on my back in the snow, I tried to get up by pushing myself up with my ski
poles, but my arms didn’t have the strength to do it. So with my ski pole, I
released my right ski and stood up, and snapped my ski back into the binding.

“You can do this,” I told myself. “You’re the Girl with the
Dragon Tattoo. The Dragon Diva.”

Then I skied down the mountain—and I didn’t fall again. I
had fun. Although my 57-year-old body is exhausted and my legs feel as wobbly
as Jell-o, I am glowing. I conquered my fear, and I experienced joy at 8,000
feet.

Confident that I will return to the ski hill next weekend and the weekend
after that and the weekend after that, I bought a season pass that’s good for
the rest of this ski season and all of next ski season.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Here's my cozy writing/reading/daydreaming spot: our little couch topped with a beautiful quilt made by my dear friend, Kathleen Brown. Out this window is an amazing view of the Elkhorn Mountains and the lake.

Sitting on the diminutive couch in our tiny living room, my
stocking feet are curled against an electric heater. My fingers, also seeking warmth, are wrapped around my coffee mug. I’m wearing three layers of
clothing, including an old cashmere sweater and a thick flannel shirt lined
with fleece. We've had weeks of sub-freezing weather, and even sub-zero weather. After six months of living tiny in the Eastern Oregon high desert, my body is still adjusting to the colder temperatures.

Four years ago, after some unsuccessful and mostly depressing attempts at online dating, I’d sworn off men and any hope of a romantic relationship. Instead, I concentrated on becoming an adventurous, joyful woman. But then—so very unexpectedly—I fell in love with an adventure-seeking Mountain Man who lived 300 miles away. Tired of cultivating our long-distance relationship, we decided to bridge the gap between us.

At the end of last summer, I left my newspaper reporter job and my old life in the city. Now I’m settling into my new life: living large in 323 square feet in the foothills of the Elkhorn Mountains in Eastern Oregon with the Mountain Man.

Living in a small space fits who we are now. Both of us have owned houses requiring hefty mortgage payments and endless maintenance and yard work. We are both at the point in our lives that we don’t want to be tied down by possessions or lengthy to-do lists. We’ve decided to live simply while enjoying a bountiful life rich in experiences rather than material things.

We’re well on our way to succeeding. In the six months I’ve lived here, we’ve soaked in a hot springs, performed as the musical entertainment at Anthony Lakes Mountain Resort, hiked in the Elkhorn Mountains, had a picnic while perched on a log on the banks of an alpine lake and then did some fly fishing, paddled kayaks, danced to live music at Ten Depot in La Grande, dined at the Barley Browne’s in Baker City, visited the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center in Baker, and much more.

We’ve also spent a lot of time editing possessions and determining what's essential and what isn't. What do we really need for our comfort in our tiny space? As I write, my laptop rests on the tiny red table I found at an estate sale more than a decade ago.
It takes up little floor space, but is useful for holding a laptop computer, a
cup of coffee or a bowl of popcorn. In my old apartment, I had an antique desk for my laptop, but truthfully, I usually write curled up on the couch. So the little worn table with chipped red paint fits perfectly into our tiny space.

Tiny home tip: Use floor space sparingly. Use tiny furniture with multiple uses.

Here are some tiny kitchen tips we've gleaned after living tiny for six months. Tiny home tip: Size--and numbers--matter. Four mugs. When you live tiny, you
must scrutinize every item you bring into the house and justify it taking up
precious space. We have space for four mugs. When I painted this lace-covered leaf mug at a fun ceramic shop in Gig Harbor recently, I had to give the boot to my cracked Star Trek Jean-Luc Picard mug. But I couldn't completely give up Jean-Luc. He's in storage.

If you had cupboard space for only four mugs, which mugs would you choose?

Tiny home tip: Use smaller dessert plates rather than larger dinner plates. We use my dessert-size English Spode plates as dinner plates. They fit in the narrow cupboard better and it's harder to overeat. The larger dinner plates didn’t
fit in the cupboard, so we are storing them.

Tiny home tip: Use vertical space to double the number of spices in the spice rack. We could fit only nine spice bottles in our tiny
home’s built-in spice rack, so the Mountain Man took the built-in spice rack to
his wood shop and built a second tier, essentially doubling the number of spices
it holds without increasing its footprint on the counter. It allows us to keep
our essential, every-day spices at hand. The rest we store in a box in an overhead
cabinet in our living/dining/kitchen.

The Mountain Man took the spice rack to the wood shopand doubled the vertical space. Notice my kitchen towelembellished by friend Rhona. Even in a tiny space, displayfavorite, beautiful, useful things.

Tiny home tip: Edit your appliances to the essential. We use our hotpot daily to make coffee and tea. It's the only appliance that gets real estate on the tiny kitchen counter. I donated my bread machine and toaster and am storing our crock pot and blender. But lately, I’ve been hankering for one of my childhood comfort foods: cinnamon toast. Do I find a tiny toaster or toaster oven? If so, where would we store it when we aren't using it? Or do I forgo toast altogether?

Essential appliances:our hot pot plus microwave, propane rangeand oven and refrigerator. I can live without a dishwasher, butI can't live without my morning coffee.

Tiny home tip: Tuck the cutting board away when not in use. To eliminate counter top clutter, the Mountain
Man built a holder for our cutting board. When we aren’t using our 12 x 12 cutting
board, it’s neatly tucked below a kitchen cabinet.

Tiny home tip: Hang the broom on the wall. We have no broom closet, so the Mountain Man built a
wooden holder to hang a broom high on the wall near the ceiling. It’s out
of the way, but easy to reach.

Tiny home tip: Place the dish drainer over one side of the double sink. And wash dishes as you get them dirty. Even if you're just eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a cup of coffee, wash up after yourself. Keep your tiny counters uncluttered and ready to use. We have no dishwasher, but I don't mind hand-washing dishes.

Our tiny kitchen has a double sink. We found a stainless steeldish drainer that fits perfectly in one sink.

Tiny home tip: Keep clutter off kitchen counters so you have space for cooking and meal prep--even if it's just making a simple peanut butter sandwich.

A bigger view of our tiny kitchen.

Tiny home tip:Unbreakable dishes that stack are practical and help stretch your cupboard space further.

Vintage and practical: our 1950s Italian Bascal aluminum cups and tiny bowls stack neatly in the cupboard and take up a tiny footprint in our tiny kitchen. I snagged them at an estate sale years ago.

Tiny home tip: Keep your silverware drawer neat by keeping only six knives, forks and spoons. Even though tiny home drawers are--well--tiny--measure them to find silverware trays to organize your drawers. Our trays are individual plastic trays that snap together. My standard silverware tray was much too large for our new drawers.

Tiny home tip: Consider it a treasure hunt. Find tiny items that also are beautiful and inspiring. While browsing in Bella Main Street Market, a fantastic kitchen shop in downtown Baker City, I found these lovely little bowls hand painted in Tunisia. They were on sale, and I got three for $6. These stackable bowls are perfect for sauces, yogurt, applesauce or tomato soup.They're not dishwasher safe. No problem. No dishwasher.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

It’s a balmy 37 degrees today. We’re having a heatwave in Eastern
Oregon. For the first time in a couple of months, the temperature has risen
above freezing. As I’ve been walking outside today, I’ve worn a flannel shirt,
but decided it wasn’t cold enough to warrant a coat, hat or gloves. That’s when
I realized I’ve acclimated to life in the foothills of the Elkhorn Mountains.

We live at about 3,600 feet. Where it hasn’t been plowed,
our accumulated snow is thigh high. The top rails of the fences are nearly
buried in snow. And yet still it comes down. The Mountain Man has spent hours
plowing the long driveway with his green John Deere tractor. It’s the first
week of February. The groundhog saw his shadow this week. We are guaranteed for
many more weeks of winter. Locals tell me this the hardest, coldest winter they’ve
had in 40 years.

Inside our tiny home—a 323 square-foot camper, the
temperature has soared to a toasty 63 degrees. It’s so warm today that we don’t
need to turn on the propane furnace. Instead, two radiator-type electric
heaters keep the temperature comfortable.

Here are some things I’ve learned after living for five
months in Eastern Oregon:

Be prepared to drive in severe weather and
really scary road conditions. I grew up on a farm in Northeastern Washington,
but our roads were not as challenging as what I’ve faced on my daily commute
into La Grande, 26 miles away. The freeway is often closed due to icy roads,
and blowing snow that causes white-out conditions. On the way to work
yesterday, I drove 35 miles per hour with my flashers on in a driving snowstorm.
The snow was blowing so hard that I could barely see the road. Out here, the
snowbanks drift quickly and you can get pulled into one and then you’re stuck.
Yesterday after work, the freeway was closed, so I had to take the long way
home through Union and Pyle’s Canyon. In some places, the snow was blowing so
hard across the road that I had to stop and find the road again.

Be prepared to be stranded in a snowstorm—and be
prepared to dig myself out. The Mountain Man’s dad encouraged me to keep my gas
tank full in case I get stuck in a snowbank all night and I have to keep my
motor running to keep from freezing. In my Subaru Forester I keep a snow
shovel, broom, long-handled ice scraper, tire chains, snow pants, heavy gloves,
hat, down vest and coat in case I get pulled into a snowbank and have to dig
myself out. I use the broom to sweep snow accumulation from my car in the
morning. I wear my sensible, warm snow boots wherever I go. When I get to work,
I change to clogs.

I keep emergency rations in my Subaru in case I
get stuck in the snow overnight and have to wait until morning for help:
granola bars, trail mix and a bottle of water. It immediately froze. I also have
an LED flashlight that doesn’t use batteries, but is powered by winding it up.

When you're driving, keep an eye out for critters that might run into the road. On my first day of work, I encountered a rancher moving cattle along the road. But more often, I encounter deer, quail, wild turkeys and other wildlife crossing the road.

When it was -6 degrees outside, it was getting
pretty chilly inside our little camper. One brisk morning I tried to pull a
fleece jacket from my closet, but it was so cold inside our house that the
jacket was frozen to the closet wall. When I pulled it loose, it was covered
with a layer of frost.

For the past two months, we have kept a faucet
running to prevent our water pipes from freezing. The Mountain Man also bought
a heated hose and wrapped the pipes at the source in insulation.

To insulate our little camper we positioned a thick
layer of straw bales all around the outside of our camper. And now, accumulated
snow reaches up to the windows, adding another layer of insulation.

I am grateful to concerned family members who
sent us gear to keep us warm. Doug and Tara sent us slippers and a heated throw
for our tiny sofa. It’s glorious to sit underneath it, drink cocoa and watch a
movie. Kalyn and Mat sent us a heated mattress pad with dual controls. I turn
that baby up before climbing into bed, and I have toasty toes. Mom sent me
thermal top and leggings for my birthday because she’s my mommy and she worries
that I’ll freeze.

Dress for the weather. Soft flannel shirts and
down vests are a must. Keep your head covered to regulate your temperature. l ordered
a beautiful handmade wool hat from my dear friend, Jean Jones, a Chewelah
friend. My hat rarely leaves my head these days. Even when I’m inside.

Sometimes when we get up in the morning, it’s 38
degrees inside. At first, it was a shock to my system, but I’m used to it now.
Turning on the propane furnace quickly heats our little home to a toasty 55
degrees. And sometimes, we even heat it to 60. A cup of hot coffee and oatmeal
helps heat me up on cold mornings too.

Be prepared to be dazzled by gorgeous, sweeping landscapes,
the immense starry skies and the kindness of the people.

Learn to look for the wonder all around, and you
won’t be disappointed.